


Ophelia

by daughterofspring



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Love Triangles, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofspring/pseuds/daughterofspring
Summary: The Daughter of a former prime minister; a proper candidate for marriage. Mycroft Holmes seeks to have her hand in marriage, but she cannot truly be what he craves most.As the manicured veneer falls away so surely, she soon finds her heart was made for another; and Sherlock has no control of his own groomed emotions.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

Some, most called it the witching hour, a brief middle ground between the darkest sky of night and the budding vibrancy of a sienna dawn;exposing all manner of sin.  
  
A blanket of fog could always be counted on, no matter the season, as if god himself sought to shield his eyes from the gas lite back roads and alley ways of the East End. If you listened closely enough, hidden amongst the constant rabble, you could hear street lamps humming with resentment at their placement in this world. The stench was unlike anything; Though, the whores always piled on the bergamot and rose perfumes, no amount of pleasantry could cover up the foulness of shit and sex and decaying ambitions. The cheap ale and rotten, upturned whiskey were the least offensive scents to assault the nose. These were cobble streets covered in vice, and lust and complete chaos. Painted prostitutes, pretty in rouge, worked dandy gentlemen, soldiers, dockyard labourers and politicians for all they could offer. Devious swindlers in tattered tails served as gatekeepers to gambling caves, tempting passersby with false promises. He would surmise why any outside such a station would exist in this realm of the morose and depraved but not she.

_“ Strange creature, my intended. Though it is an incredible miracle she turned out to be such stunning thing given her parentage.” A droll observation, one riddled with the undertones of ownership already. “Still, rumours circulate.” Mycroft held the brandy with disinterest, the cup nearing empty and it was all his younger brother could do not to roll his eyes in response. Instead, placed down the daily print and exhaled with mild annoyance. For all his pride, the elder Holmes couldn’t simply ask for help outright. “You want me to investigate your bride to be?” His moustache nearly twitches a brow lifting as if the very idea took him by surprise and not by his own dance around the subject. “ A fine suggestion, little brother.”_

And a fine chase she had lead the renowned Sherlock Holmes on. Through cobbled streets bustling with vice and hidden gems of curiosity well late into the night, waiting, patient of soul for her to exit the backlit shop. Strange creature indeed and still the wheels of intrigue burned with brilliance in his mind; what would bring a lady of such standing to a hobble in the ground. A life of secrecy? Perhaps. All the more he imagined her to be a secret suffragette. How utterly distressed Mycroft would be, his pride in shambles…the thought struck Sherlock with a subtle smirk.

A bell chimes, a figure emerges like an elegant shadow dancing in the glow of the fading street lamps. Sherlock has had enough time to gain some perspective, a formal meeting made of mere minutes could have been sufficient information to go on.

_“This, lady Ophelia, is my younger brother, Sherlock.” A trained smile; an unspoken byproduct of boarding and finishing school, along with the raise in posture— habitual? Not in the slightest, forced? Indeed. Aided by whale boning of her corset and an image the young woman was made to maintain for the sake of her own father’s reputation. Dutiful. “Mr. Holmes.” A sing song tune, pointed by the outstretch of a feather blue gloved hand. “ I’ve heard much of your exploits, sir. You’ve amassed such an impressive body of accomplishments.” Oh, there is the slip, the effervescent glow amidst a sea of earthly amber eyes. “Heavens, dear Ophelia, surely you would find something more engrossing than my brother’s line of work.” And with a mere sentence, Sherlock watched that blaze dull almost instantaneously— and yet, “ Of course, Mycroft. Though I cannot say tales of mystery are held to the same level of excitement as embroidery or mastering the art of cottilian.” The elder brothers jaw had locked while that of the youngest softened into an airy flutter of laughter. “ The pleasure is all mine entirely.” His hand engulfed her own and a surge of something beyond reason and science pull at the cage of his chest. A twitch that would be dismissed within an instant._

In a blink of an eye, the figure had evaporated into the crowd, the great sleuth had lost his trail; his vantage point — “ Perhaps you’re better than the accounts I’ve read, Mr. Holmes, I thought I had lost you ten blocks east.” She stares up, a mixture of emotions swirling about her feature, but those which overwhelmed were amusement and indignation. The latter not wholly fixated on Sherlock at least ( _he deduced_ ), thought better not to rattle her further. “ It’s nearly half—“

“Mycroft sent you.” She wasted no breath on the accusations, though in this case, they were entirely true.

“Yes.” A velvet husk. “ To spy on me?” Another charge.

“ He asked that I check up on you.” Not a complete lie. But by the way she regarded him, the package clutched tightly between silk coated fingers as if it were something criminal spoke otherwise.

“ I have not accepted his proposal.” Relief? Was that how his breath was taken? Surely not. “ Even still, he has no right!” Ophelia began to storm away. “You have no right.” The click of heels hits the cobblestone, a fervent pace but Sherlock’s limbs carry him to her speed in little more than the breadth of a second. He slowed himself, attaining her footfalls with his own.

“ Of course. But what am I to tell my older brother of his intended’s hobbies? That she had been seen sneaking about the east end of London— flittering through crowds of drunken fools and ladies of the night, visiting questionable establishments and buying god knows what. I’m sure he will be delighted.” Though his words posed a threat to a polished veneer, they held no weight with his tone. As if he were more enthralled by her than anything, and curious beyond any reason. But _He was a detective, after all_. Taunting as they were, the young woman paused. Steps halted, hand brushing away a stray stand of dark hair from her face.

“ Sherlock.” She was flustered. “I’m not going to empty the contents of my bag in the middle of the streets.”

The man turned, a boyish grin curling his lips, curls bouncing as his sturdy frame halted several feet ahead. “ Tea, Lady Ophelia?”

“At half past two in the morning?” Not that she could speak on what seemed appropriate for the hour.

“ Wandering east London, at half past two in the morning?” Came his response. True to his nature, he was no less haughty about it. Brow quirked, smile completely bare for all to see, a strong arm extended to guide her when she would relent. Of that, the detective was certain and when she curled her fingers around his bicep, he held his breath, the chuckle at bay stolen with a silent hitch.

“ If I did not value your cleverness, Sherlock, I might be cursing you.” So too cracks another layer of polish. A soft giggle dances of her tongue, yielding to his idle threats.

“There are still hours in the day.”


	2. Scotch and Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ There is not much to say that you haven’t already said. You wonder why a lady of my status was roaming about there east end at such an improper hour. Unescorted, surely scandaled.” She purses her lips, watching his features still. Unwavering, like a marbled statue of a studious grecian philosopher who happened to be built like a Demi god. “ You think me a delinquent, perhaps.” She draws a finger to her lips, tapping, mulling over her thoughts. “And you wonder what is in this bag that is so important it cannot wait until the midday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I didn't really think this would get any traction considering how few stories exist. But as a Sherlock fan, I found Henry's portrayal completely refreshing. He wasn't a complete dickhead all the time.  
> Anyways, thanks again.

* * *

It was far more established than a gin palace, more reserved but certainly no tea lining the shelves. It could have raised some suspicion from Ophelia had she be craving earl grey at this hour. The layers of wood behind the bar were lined with fine whiskey’s and other spirits, the opposing walls and hidden alcoves were made to envy; the book spines of varying heights crafting an illusion of chaotic order. She was focused on the titles; the Iliad, the republic, the vindication of the rights of women, moby dick. The varied titles feeding her eyes. Darwin, Newton, Copernicus— heavens, Sherlock had lead her to wonderland. She plucked away a silk glove, fingers travelling down the spine of Harmonia Macrocosmica a mixture of utter awe and caution guiding her digit. The atlas looked so worn and yet, so preserved in it’s century old state and how she longed to crack it open and pour over the pages with care and thoughtfulness. Ophelia was overwhelmed by each book and the pure existence of each title mingled together, resting on a throne of mahogany, longing for appreciative eyes. The muffle of voices. One of joyful servitude and the other thankful for it. The latter reminded her of a robust scotch; honeyed, smokey— _something to savour indeed_.

She could feel the deft fingers curling around the back collar of her jacket, a touch which had drawn her back to earth so suddenly. Her gaze fell on the detective, the smile reflecting his own but with a wonderment so staggering that it rattled the cage of his chest. “ I thought it was an invitation for tea? “ a playful accusation, her frame shrugging from the heavy, wooden coat.

“I’ve seen the way you take you tea, I think you’d prefer a glass of islay.” Another observation he made upon their second meeting. Not a drop of honey or milk poured in her tea, her palette favoured simplistic sweets over the extravagance of pastry and confectionary. That, and the longing gaze she allowed to linger at the bottle of scotch passing through the restaurant Mycroft had insisted upon. He could only assume she had an affection for the depth of scotch over the emptiness of champagne or gin.

“You are good, aren’t you?” She was well amused and unable to hide it, but ophelia had a preference for the drink. “ But, I’d rather a glass of bowmore, single malt if they have it.” The second glove is peeled form her hand, pastel pink giving light to youthful, olive skin; a bestowed gift from her mothers spaniard roots.

“ Bowmore it is, lady ophelia.” he quipped with a boyish smirk. He was teasing her, surely. “Heavens, Sherlock. I think we can set formalities aside.” She replies. Her nose crinkling in an exaggerated show of displeasure. “I’ll find us a place.” She had no reason to question his abilities in carrying two drinks; and she took his jacket with her own as she went. The fluidity of movements came with such startling ease that both parties held onto the feeling silently.

The ease of her company had been predicted, yet, for the vastness of Sherlock’s intellect, he had not prepared for it. Not entirely.She was challenging, in the most delightful of ways but there wouldn’t be a scenario where such a trait was accepted by Mycroft. Not in the slightest. A doomed fate for a spark in the world and had she been born a son, she would have been a prodigy to be held on the highest of pedestals. Instead, she would live as a dove in the confines of a gilded cage, her intellect hidden away like fine china plates. The thought of which soured him greatly. _I haven’t accepted his proposal_ words greeting him like a sonnet. By all accounts, he should have simply escorted her home, and he would— eventually. Sherlock could hold his inquisitive nature accountable, simply write it off as genuine curiosity and that would be an east feat if it was true at all. Especially so, as he finds her nestled in an alcove. A warm smile greeting him as he places the drink in front of her.

“Thank you.” And she takes a full swig, unflinchingly before setting the glass on the worn table with care. “ You’re very welcome.” He takes a haul of his own, analyzing her movements. A gesture Ophelia take notice of, an inquisitive smirk curling plush lips. “What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock always had a particular weakness for women. Not in the expression of lewdness, more an appreciation for cleverness beyond the comprehension of men, and for an all enduring grace which transcends station. She was turning out to be the holy grail of it all. The detective takes pause, allowing the query to ruminate. “ You enjoy astronomy. I didn’t think that was something they taught in finishing school.”

“ It certainly isn’t.” She chuckles softly. “ My brother, Arthur— He sent a crate with my winter clothes and managed to smuggle a telescope beneath them. I was beyond elated and perhaps it made me foolish enough to sneak on the roof after curfew.” She began to reminisce. The threads of propriety giving way to such an intimate detail and Sherlock was completely enthralled. Ocean blue taking note of the way her demeanour was becoming delightfully unhinged.

“ Were you caught?” His grin spread so wide.

“ Unfortunately so, the headmistress was beyond infuriated. I never saw the telescope again.” She took a sip, even as the ending took a sad turn, her spirits were lifted. God, she could still recall Miss Devonberry’s scowl, the redness creeping on the woman’s features was far too good to forget. “ It was worth it, I can assure you.” For a second she wonders how her life would look in the span of a year. Her father was pushing for the match between her and Mycroft Holmes, the election was on the horizon and he could use as many political allies as he could barter for. Would he be as open as his younger brother? Would propriety melt into softness and heart? Would he allow her to pursue the harmless hobby of stargazing and mapping constellations? Ophelia hadn’t the slightest desire to linger on the idea of it all. Too focused on the man in front of her to dwell on truths she already knew the answer to. “That’s not all you’re thinking.” It wasn’t framed as a question. Nor was the flourish of dramatics which followed; the quirk of a brow, the leaning of her torso, her chin resting inquisitively on the edge of a palm.

“By all means, Ophelia, you tell me.” He was altogether amused. His broad frame open and relaxed in the cushioned booth across from her. Ophelia was dwarfed by his presence but she could hardly backdown from such a challenge. Not from the great Sherlock Holmes.

“ There is not much to say that you haven’t already said. You wonder why a lady of my status was roaming about there east end at such an improper hour. Unescorted, surely scandaled.” She purses her lips, watching his features still. Unwavering, like a marbled statue of a studious grecian philosopher who happened to be built like a Demi god. “ You think me a delinquent, perhaps.” She draws a finger to her lips, tapping, mulling over her thoughts. “And you wonder what is in this bag that is so important it cannot wait until the midday.”

“ I think I made it far too easy on you then.” He tuts.

“ You won’t be able to rest until you know why.” She countered. “ You can look for yourself, Sherlock.” She slides the canvas towards him, inviting his gaze.

Large fingers reach out, tugging the package towards him and unfurling it with a singular motion. He pulls out the small paper bag, its contents nearly overflowing and he reaches in to pluck a confection and plop it in his mouth. Sherlock had never been one for sweets, but the taste— “ pear drops. “ He couldn’t imagine the risk being worth venturing into a dangerous part of London in the middle of the night. But the candies covered a loosely wrapped bundle. The shape and weight could only be one thing, and it didn’t take a detective of his caliber to figure that one out. He clutches the book, sweeping away the brown paper and now he understood her reasoning. “Vestiges of the natural history of creation.” She could now place that honeyed smoke. His voice made the already coveted book all the more enticing. Knowledge was always worth the danger and that truth had not changed since the dawn of humanity. “ This is a controversial work, you know.”

“I know, there’s a shop in the west end that claims they have the best pear drops. ” Ophelia reaches across the table. A plucky grin painting her lips as she takes a confection and pops it in her mouth. Not even Sherlock can resist a hearty chuckle at her jest. Clever, far too clever for his brother. The poor woman.

“ Can I offer another solution? “ The man inquired. His tone shifting to that of a more serious nature. Cobalt fixes upon ochre. “ Should you need another book with this stigma around it, at least ask someone you trust to get it. Or at least have a proper escort.”

“ I did have an escort, Mr. Holmes.” She finishes her scotch. Mirth hidden behind the cup. “ He just chose to hide in the shadows.”

“Ha!” A singular expression, one so caught off guard it trickled into a deep chuckle. “Outwitted this evening, how will my ego recover from such a blow?” He jokes. Were it another who displayed such wit, he may have felt a true sting but instead he felt a strange swell of pride for his opponent.

“ I will buy you another drink to make up for it.”

Her offer was one he could not find it in himself to refuse. And where the bounds of propriety stood, he so quickly forgot. Where guilt should reign, he felt naught. At least in his company, the young woman would be safe. That is the tale he would tell himself.

* * *

Ophelia had learned to feign a wealth of emotions. The grooming of young women into something submissive and doll-like was an art, one which had changed through the centuries to fit the desires of men. There were some wild women who always slipped through the cracks; some with swords, some with faith and others could easily slip through the crevices. Their wildness a softened adornment, their intellect a sharpened asset masquerading as something far more delicate and unmatched. Ophelia fell into the latter category, though it was difficult to fake hours of sleep.

She had left those details to Mr. Holmes, his superior skills helping her sneak back into her family manor without detection. Breakfast would be a task to endure for certain. Arthur had been living outside the home since he married and while she had been over the moon for her brother, she felt far more isolated. Her father could not be counted upon to share any interests and her sister— dear Edith, darling young woman cared little for anything outside the lines of feminine pursuits. It truly was a wonder why she wasn’t already married to Mycroft Holmes but Ophelia imagined it was another way for father to gain a foothold he never truly had over her.

“ I shall leave you with a small sum this morning, Ophelia.” Lord Salisbury had a strange way of speaking. Every syllable held a hue of arrogance while offering little give, no room for argument.

“Whatever for, father?” She dared the question. She dared where others wouldn’t, and that fact only solidified his quest to find her a suitable husband. A firm hand to reign over the unruliness he had seen from his eldest daughter far too many times. If only his wife were alive to stave some of this off. He could not bare to look upon Ophelia for too long, he could not chance her mother’s eyes challenging him so.

“ Mr. Holmes will accompany you to the House of Lords reception. “

The teacup held between her fingers clipped the saucer. “ Father. Perhaps, Edith would suit him better.” She could see her sister perk. The hopefulness setting her blue eyes alight, a secret infatuation confessed between sisters. The younger could not stop speaking to Mycroft’s charming demeanour. Something Ophelia must have missed entirely. Handsome, yes. The elder Holmes was not so terrible to look at, but he was so terribly stern that it was easy to forget otherwise.

“Ophelia— I will not discuss this further. I allowed you to pursue hobbies and charity too long it would seem that you have forgotten your duties as a daughter.” There was dangerous hum to his voice, the daily print crumpled and displaced on the breakfast table. “ Holmes is a fine match and an important political ally. I will hear nothing more of it!”

“ I cannot marry him, I simply cannot.”

She should have expected his outburst. In the years since their mother passed, he had become increasingly less amiable. “ I said no more! “ his fist slams against the heavy wood. The tea rippling waves, the china chattering against silverware and both daughters jumping at the raise in tone. He stood abruptly, finishing his tea and slamming the cup down so roughly that it was a surprise the fine ware did not shatter. “ You will buy a new dress, you will present yourself properly, and you will quiet any thoughts that do not pertain to becoming his wife. Do I make myself clear, Ophelia?”

Tears are held at bay by sheer spite, her head nodding and words unable to be spoken. But the nod was enough to satiate her father, enough he took his leave for the day without so much the utterance of a goodbye.

“Why do you test him so? “ Dear Edith. So naive to the value of will. But she was still kind, still tentative enough to offer a kerchief and leave her older sister to sort out her own mess. Not so empathetic at the end of it all. She was the good one. The child who followed every example to submit. Compliant and malleable to any thought. Ophelia loved her sister, and in some ways envied how easily she could roll over to the will of others. Perhaps, her life would be so much easier if she could simply do the same.

She sat for a long while, staring at a jar of orange marmalade as if it were a nebula painting the sky. Stars held no expectations for her, they existed and they were radiant for it. Burning bright in an otherwise dark sky, flickering without a societal chokehold. How she wished to be a star.

“ Lady Ophelia.” The pleasant Cornish brogue of Miss Carne fills the breakfast room.

Stray tears be damned as she wiped them away. “ Yes?” Her smile was back, the polish coating her features with the finery of a lady’s education.

“A package came for you.”She announced.

“I— thank you.” Ophelia stood. Excusing herself from her nearly untouched meal and trailing with haste into the front parlour where she found her father’s steward, Mr. Edgly guiding the young men charged with it’s delivery. “ Thank you for your troubles.” A crown each would suffice, and she plucked the coins from her own purse, offering them without a second thought.

It was a crate. The lid cracked enough she could open it for herself with ease. The envelope on top had a fresh wax seal, one she swore was still warm. It peeled open with a satisfying slip, the scent of fresh ink, the subtle breeze of oakmoss and bergamot filling her nostrils for a split second. The smile overtakes her melancholy.

_Don’t get caught this time—_

_Your proper escort,_

_Sherlock._

She peeled away at the scraps of board, the burlap keeping the contents of the package intact. The telescope was a piece of art; hued brass engraved with simple portraits of the moon and stars. A gift to be cherished the same as his company. However dangerous that thought might be when her father had the sole intent on marrying her off to the detectives older brother.


End file.
